Immaculate Deception (20 page)

"When she went to a social gathering was it always
alone?"

"On many occasions she went with us. There are so many
events, of course. I presume she might have gone with one or another of her
colleagues. But not in the way you suggest."

"Did she spend much social time with Harlan Foy?"

"Her AA?"

Mrs. Rome's smile broadened.

"Now really, Detective FitzGerald. Everybody knows
about her Mr. Foy."

Fiona felt herself growing increasingly frustrated. Again
she looked at Cates, imagined she detected a tiny gloating smile. Go ahead, he
seemed to be saying, get it out of your system.

"You can think of no one ... no one that you can even
remotely consider as her possible lover?" Fiona asked. She felt like a
broken record.

"If you must know," Mrs. Rome said with the
slightest touch of haughtiness. "I can't even think of Frankie in that
light."

"Well somebody had to be the father," Fiona said,
detecting a kind of whining tone in her own voice.

"You have my opinion, officer. Perhaps she and Jack
were separated, but knowing that man ... and Frankie ... I could imagine him
deep in his cups demanding that she meet her ... wifely obligations. Besides, I
never heard her utter an unkind word about her husband in the years that I've
known her. Beyond that facade of the independent strong-minded woman was a very
traditional and moral person. It would be unthinkable to see her in any other
way." She looked pointedly at Fiona. "Really, I don't think that my
husband or I can be of much help in concocting the kind of case you're trying
to make in this matter. Frankie was our friend and she remains our friend even
in blessed memory."

"We hadn't meant..." Fiona began, but it was
quickly apparent that Mrs. Rome was not through. There was great toughness,
Fiona observed, behind the persistent smile.

"Yes, you had. Frankly, I don't know what demons
possessed poor Frankie. We did not see her as deeply troubled or unhappy in any
way. I suppose in politics you learn to dissimulate. Perhaps she was so good at
it that we never saw the truth." Mrs. Rome's attention seemed to falter,
drift away. It became clear that the interview was over.

"Well, you've been very kind to talk with us again,
Mrs. Rome," Cates said. It seemed a signal for the woman to rise. They
also rose and followed her through the apartment to the front door.

"If I can be of any assistance, officers, please don't
hesitate to visit or call." She held out her hand to Cates, then Fiona,
shaking them in turn with a strong politician's grasp.

"Don't say it," Fiona snapped as they walked to
elevators.

"I won't."

"She's living in a fantasy world," Fiona said,
thinking of her mother. "Typical smiley-smiley. Political helpmate. Woman
behind the man bullshit." Frustration had knotted her guts.

"All beside the point, Fi. Still no hits, no
runs."

"Only errors," she sighed.

They moved down the corridor and Cates pushed the elevator
button. As they waited they heard banging noises in the shaft and when none of
the two elevators arrived after an inordinately long wait, they decided to walk
down. They proceeded to the door marked exit which was next to the Rome apartment and started down the stairs.

But when they descended down two levels, Fiona stopped
suddenly and ran back up the stairs. She opened the exit door and found herself
in the corridor where Mrs. McGuire's apartment was located.

"What is it?" Cates said puffing obediently
behind her.

She avoided an answer as she repeated the process of
opening and closing the exit door. It operated smoothly making no sound. She
stood for a while just inside the landing, contemplating an idea that was
emerging clearly in her mind.

"You're not thinking that?" Cates said.

"It's entirely possible," Fiona said, tapping her
teeth with the longish nail of her forefinger.

"You're reaching."

"Think so? A quick run down the stairs. One flight. If
he had a key, he'd be in her apartment in seconds with no one the wiser."

"Dangerous theory," Cates said.

"Worth pursuing," Fiona said. Again she opened
the exit door and studied the empty corridor.

"Especially if you're looking for another line of
work."

"A politician is a born opportunist," Fiona said.
She closed the exit door and looked upward to the floor above. "And this
is an opportunity."

"You're leading me straight down the garden path to
hell, FitzGerald," the Eggplant said half-mockingly. It wasn't exactly
what he had bargained for. "Mrs. Rome could be the unwitting beard,"
Fiona said, spinning out yet another scenario. "He had proximity, that's
for sure. Clever rascal, Rome. You can bet he'd find a way to get together with
the lady without being seen."

"Talk about circumstantial," Cates said.

"Still the stubborn opponent," Fiona sighed.

"I'm not saying it couldn't happen," Cates said.
"All I'm sayng is that you haven't placed the man in the apartment."

"He found a way. He's a politician. Man like that
always finds a way."

"Maybe," Cates agreed. "He'd have to be a
really cagey bastard to evade the all-seeing Mrs. Rome."

"She certainly has a narrow view," Fiona said.

"Man with a hawkeye like her for a wife doesn't have
too many options."

"Love always finds a way," Fiona said.

"We're talking here of place," Cates said.
"Geography."

"They could have gotten it on up there," the
Eggplant said pointing with his panatela in the general direction of Capitol
Hill. "Horniness and power. Goes hand in hand in this town."

"No way. For Rome that would be geographically
unacceptable," Fiona said. "Be like doing it in public. Too
image-conscious. Too much staff around. Too many eyes and ears. Not foolproof
enough for him. And her. No. If it was Rome, this would be strictly a closet
thing. Their biggest consideration was obviously safety and discretion. If it
did happen, they sneaked around."

"There's a contradiction there," Cates said.
"There are no foolproof ways to sneak around. Not in this town."

"That would depend on logistics," Fiona said.
"I may have solved that problem."

"Flanagan's boys are brushing the place," the
Eggplant said. "We'll soon see."

"It would still be circumstantial," Cates said.

"Every great journey begins with but a single
step," Fiona said.

"That still doesn't explain how he evaded Mrs.
Cyclops."

"Well, for one, how about mornings? She said he got up
at the crack of dawn. Pecks the little lady on the cheek, then pops down to
Frankie and hops in for a roll in the hay. They'd spend an hour or so, then
down he'd go to the garage and off to work."

"Sounds like you've been there, FitzGerald," the
Eggplant said. Fiona blushed. For a brief time a few years ago, she'd had a
morning lover, a man cheating on his wife. Of course, she hadn't known that
fact. Although his habit of meeting her in the morning did strike her as
peculiar. He said he worked for the CIA and his work kept him busy until late
into the evening. She had checked that out. He did work for the CIA. Despite
that he could not ultimately hide the fact of his marriage and that ended that.
Nevertheless, from this point of view, it was a discreet, safe plan. The fact
was, he never did get caught by his wife.

"Or he could have stopped by on his way home,"
Fiona said continuing her speculation. "Through the garage, up the
elevator. If it was safe he'd get off on Frankie's floor. If not he would
proceed to his own and dash down the stairs. Most likely, he would use the
stairs to get back up. Chances are he wouldn't see anyone on the stairs.
Wouldn't be a place for much traffic." Actually, she liked her morning
theory better.

"Naturally, he had a key," the Eggplant said.

"Is the pope Catholic?"

"Then why no clues in the McGuire apartment?"
Cates interjected.

"We could always get a warrant to search the Rome apartment," Fiona suggested. "Might turn up something."

"Now there's one that would wake the dogs," the
Eggplant said. She watched him suck the end of his panatela saturating it with
saliva.

"Part of the procedure for any ordinary suspect,"
Fiona protested.

"Are you suggesting that the old Eggplant is a
chicken?" He tried relighting the panatela without success.

"Just figuring out ways to make a case here,"
Fiona said. The Eggplant shrugged and studied her.

"My father was a house painter. When I was a kid I
worked for him. It's the only other skill I have. I do what you suggest, I
start Monday with a brush and bucket."

"Just raising one small voice for justice," Fiona
said.

The panatela was too wet to smoke and he discarded it in an
ashtray and lit up another, sucked in the smoke, and blew it out in rings. His
attitude, she sensed, was surprisingly philosophical.

"Justice, is it? You got movies of Rome in the sack
with Frankie? Rome slipping the cyanide into the wineglass? Rome wiping off the
prints and stealing upstairs to his nice cozy nest? You got that, FitzGerald,
then I'm first in line on your parade."

"All I'm saying is that we have to start
somewhere," Fiona muttered. "It's not our job to let him get away
with it."

"Maybe we got here the makings of the perfect
crime," the Eggplant sighed. It wouldn't, of course, be the first time.
She had encountered a number of situations where someone who had with absolute
certainty committed a murder but could not be brought to trial for lack of sufficient
evidence. It was one of the main frustrations of all homicide detectives.

"No crime is perfect," Fiona countered.
"Every solution depends on the diligence and commitment of people like
us," she said with lofty assurance. "I truly believe that this thing
is bustable."

"Might bust us, too," the Eggplant muttered.

He was remarkably sanguine. In other circumstances he would
have insisted that she lean heavily on a suspect, play with his head to extract
a confession. He was holding back now. It was too risky. They needed more, much
more.

"Maybe we could dig up the body, do a DNA print,"
Fiona said.

"Still experimental. Maybe someday," the Eggplant
said wistfully.

The telephone rang. The Eggplant answered it, barked out
some order, then hung up.

"You get him to confess, FitzGerald, we got us a
case," he said, as if he had read her mind. He smiled and watched a smoke
ring rise to the ceiling.

"He's too damned shrewd to let me take him,"
Fiona said. "He's an expert in manipulation. He'll see through me in a minute."

"With due respect," Cates said, clearing his
throat, a tic signaling a coming profundity. He looked at Fiona. "I'm not
saying it didn't happen exactly as you suggested. Or variation thereof."

"Well, thanks for the seal of approval."

"Don't misunderstand, Fi. I really do believe that Rome could have been the woman's lover. But killer. That's a whole different ball of wax.
Still nothing I've seen or heard rings that bell. All I've been getting is a
motive for suicide. Nothing more." He shook his head. "Sorry."

"Motive for suicide, is it?" Fiona asked.
"Old Rome refused to divorce the lovely Barbara. Maybe he even suggests
the "A" word. Because of that, she does herself with cyanide. That
it?"

"Something like that," Cates said.

"Soap opera bullshit," Fiona shot back. She felt
a bubble of anger expand in her chest. "She was an independent
strong-minded woman. She was perfectly capable of accepting the reality of the
child." She looked at both of them pointedly, pugnaciously. She thought
suddenly of Greg and her own situation. "Married or not, dammit."

Her burst of anger seemed to surprise Cates and the
Eggplant.

"Cates has a point, FitzGerald," the Eggplant
said, calmly.

"The only point he has is on his head," Fiona
said, fuming.

"What we are seeking here," the Eggplant said,
ignoring their verbal joust, "is a possible cover story for an ungraceful
exit. We declare suicide. Name no names. Case closed."

"You're kidding," Fiona said, startled.

"It's a perfectly logical option," he muttered.

"Politically speaking," Fiona said.

"In the absence of evidence, as good a resolution as
any you've offered," the Eggplant said. She couldn't tell if he was
serious or not.

"You were the only one who pushed the murder theory. I
arrived later on that one. And him..." She looked at Cates who met her
gaze head on. "...he's still at the station."

"I'm only going on what we have at the moment,"
the Eggplant said. "The man gave us one week, remember. Far be it from me
to dampen your enthusiasm." Was he mocking her? Or goading her on? She was
getting mixed signals. Maybe he was setting her up, letting her go out on a
limb on her own.

"Gentlemen," Fiona said standing up. "We
have a problem here. Neither of you know shit about women."

"I won't deny that one," the Eggplant said,
obviously being patronizing. She could imagine his interpretation. This was the
last line of defense for the harassed female. When in doubt blame the boys for
not understanding the girls. She felt suddenly like a cliché, an object of
ridicule.

Cates avoided her eyes.

At that moment the telephone rang. The Eggplant answered
it, looked at her and mimed "Flanagan."

"Are you sure?" the Eggplant asked. He shook his
head, grunted into the phone and hung up.

"Sorry, FitzGerald. No good prints near the exit
doors, on the railings or walls."

She was disappointed. But it didn't shake her theory. Not
one bit.

"It was, I will admit, an intriguing idea," the
Eggplant said, his voice trailing off.

"He gave us a week," she stammered. "I want
the time." She looked at Cates who shrugged.

"You got it," the Eggplant said. "Only I
want..."

"To be apprahzed," she said mimicking the way he
said it.

He nodded and puffed a line of smoke rings in her
direction.